No More Mr Nice Guy!
by Fenrir's Daughter
Summary: Spinner and Sherman are way pumped to see Alice Cooper rock the salt flats! But what's this? What are the Vandals doing here? Can the brothers Cortez save Earth and still get back in time for the finale? LET'S ROCK N' ROLL!


A/N: Ok, I first posted this Christmas Eve or something around then, but it wasn't really ready yet. I guess I was just excited by the holidays, so I put a rush on it. I've tweaked some of the narrative, I changed one of the songs, but this is still a fic with a CELEBRITY CAMEO. If you don't like Alice Cooper, are you sure you've listened to him? Go to youtube. He's awesome! Seriously, though, in his sixties and still dying four times a show. That's dedication! Me no own, you no sue! ROLL IT!

* * *

><p>Spinner Cortez slurped the last of his highly caffeinated soda and ordered another, barely containing the excitement that shook through his nerve endings. His eyes darted with feverish anticipation and a look of manic glee was plastered on his face. He simply could not stop grinning.<p>

"Spin, seriously. You're creeping people out."

"Only the townies!" he insisted defensively.

Sherman sighed, knowing his brother was right. Most of Zeke's tables were occupied by black clad strangers who wore the same expression of crazed enthusiasm Spinner had. The diner echoed with giggles, song, and at least one pick-up game of Dungeons & Dragons. That very night, live and loud on the salt flats, Alice Cooper was to take the stage. His music was insane, his theatrics were legendary, and his fans were rabid. He was the original shock rocker, and the Cortez brothers could not wait for the show to start.

"This is going to be so awesome!" Spinner enthused. "I wish you guys were coming with us!"

"Eh, I'm more of a country music fan," AJ said with a shrug. It was true; hard rock just was not his thing. Sure, there was the frightening personality shift that came with hockey season, and right about then he could never get enough of metal groups like Megadeth or Anvil. But the first Edmonton Oilers game was still two months away, and for now, Alice did not interest him.

"We'll need all hands on deck since you boys got the night off," Vert assured him. "If we're lucky it'll be quiet. Who knows, maybe we'll get to make an appearance."

"Could you get tickets?" Spin asked.

"I could've if I'd known the concert was coming up!" Stanford complained. "Why didn't you tell me sooner? I could've pulled some strings and gotten everyone front row seats!"

"Ah, you can still hear the music just fine from the roof, anyway."

"Vert, that's nearly a mile away! We'll completely miss the stage show! The mascara! The monsters! The mayhem!"

"I get enough monsters and mayhem in the battle zones."

Spinner rose, huffing in mock disgust. "Your lack of enthusiasm sickens me, Wheeler. I will now vacate your presence to apply my guyliner." He turned on his heel in a dramatic flourish, sticking his nose in the air, leaving his friends chuckling behind him.

Many customers there had already gone crazy with the eye makeup, much to the chagrin of the more conservative locals. The motley crew that comprised the Battle Force 5 was the most normal looking bunch in the place, save for the Cortez brothers of course—the pair had donned black leather bracelets and t-shirts advertising their favorite horror films. But they had waited on the mascara until the last minute specifically so as not to get hounded by anyone. All of this, of course, meant nothing to Sheriff Johnson, who was perpetually convinced the group was up to no good.

Eugene 'Bubba' Johnson was a simple man who knew what he liked, and he did not like Vert Wheeler. He never had; not when he was a cute and happy child before his daddy ran off, certainly not when he became an angst-ridden ne'er-do-well in the aftermath, and especially not now that the boy had matured into a stable young man and taken control of his life so confidently. He reminded the sheriff too much of wise-cracking, hard-partying Jack Wheeler, the green-eyed bastard who had stolen his high school crush.

It was a foolish resentment, he knew, but not one he was likely to get rid of any time soon, so he took it and ran with it. It was not as if it interfered with his duties; since the murders had dried up, he hardly needed his deputies at all. There was of course the occasional bout of vandalism around homecoming or Halloween, but barely even a house party had occurred since Vert graduated. And sure, Vert claimed to have reformed, but where was the harm in making sure Blondie stayed on the straight and narrow, even if he was being a bit of a bully?

With a contemptuous smirk he approached the group, smacking Stanford upside his head like usual; somehow, that always seemed to get more of a rise out of Vert than if he had been struck himself. He, of course, ignored the blonde's claims that he was not there to make trouble.

"I've got my eye on you, Wheeler. Don't think you can get away with anything just because of extra folks in town for the concert."

"Don't you have something better to do than torment these poor kids?"

Sheriff Johnson whirled round, livid at the nerve of the admonishing voice, but he suddenly stopped in his tracks. His eyes went wide at the over the top mascara around the famously mischievous blue eyes, the bushy black hair and the studded leather. There was a slight hiss as a small python flicked out its tongue from around the man's shoulders.

"I mean, when was your last family weekend?" the rock star asked. "Go site-seeing, attend a ballgame, visit a theme park; you know, quality family time!"

The Sheriff stared, slack-jawed, as he tried desperately to think of a rebuttal.

"You don't want your kids to grow up to be _weirdoes,_ do ya?"

"NO! I-I mean—uh, I—"

Alice smiled warmly, patting the sheriff on the back. "You have a nice day," he said. Without much fuss, save for the quietly fawning fans who respectfully kept their distance, Mr. Cooper paid for his food. He posed for a few quick snapshots and signed someone's skull, but he soon departed just as quickly as he had arrived. The diner erupted in excited conversations almost immediately as the sheriff left in hurried shame.

Spinner returned from the men's room looking like a scrawny panda. "So, what I miss?"

When his stunned looking friends all pointed at once, he followed their trembling hands to the front door. He stared in awe as he exited the diner.

The little girls who had been skipping rope earlier were still there, but they were now closely watched by two burly-looking biker types with walky talkies. And there, between the girls, was a man all in black, his heavy boots clomping on the pavement as he jumped.

"My name is Alice  
>I live in a palace!<br>I live in Phoenix,  
>and not in Dallas!<br>I stay at the Marriot  
>because I care a lot!"<p>

"Storm shock approaching!"

Spinner's teammates ran out behind him, congratulating him on his tickets. With a final toss over his shoulder of "Have fun at the concert!" Vert hopped into the Saber. His friends quickly followed behind in their own vehicles and together they headed out into the desert. The Cortez brothers were left standing there in the dusty parking lot, watching a grown man in Goth garb play a children's game. His brain finally catching up with him, Spinner grinned.

"Can I play?"

* * *

><p>Hours later, deep in a battle zone…<p>

Stanford backed away at top speed, barely avoiding the deadly fire sent his way by Kyrosis and shooting as he went. This fight was going downhill and _fast._ The magma of the battle zone amplified the abilities of the Red Sentients and they seemed to be everywhere at once.

"Mate, please tell me you've got a lead on that battle key!"

"Almost got it!" Zoom replied. "Hang tight! Kytren's on fire today!"

"_I'm_ going to be on fire if Kyrosys doesn't let up!" he complained, mentally noting that the Red's name sounded like a disease. Finally, the noble managed to take the kill shot, only to be pounced on by Kyburi. Luckily, Agura was quickly at his side to help fend off the other hunter.

As the battle raged on between the warring sides, each party of the conflict was unaware of the presence of the Vandal Warlord. Captain Kalus usually thought subterfuge to be beneath him; it was a matter of honor to face one's foes head on. Those who did dirty business behind their enemies' backs were cowards. And yet, against these lowly subcreatures the Vandal ways had failed more instances than he could count. Perhaps a change in strategy would better their odds of success. Perhaps, just this once, he could afford to eschew the usual channels, if only to avoid becoming predictable.

For now, Kalus and Sever would attempt to retrieve the battle key. Krocomodo and Hatch, on the other paw…

The subcreatures were distracted by the Reds. This was their chance to make it through the portal to Earth.

* * *

><p>Spinner hurriedly washed his hands as his brother complained.<p>

"You just _had_ to have all that mountain dew. Just _absolutely_ had to be wired from the caffeine tonight," Sherman groused, leering around his mascara. "Well, I hope you're happy, Spin, because now we're not going to make it back to our seats before the end of intermission because you _really_ had to go."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't know the lines for the men's room would be this crazy!"

"_We found his diary today,"_ drifted a feminine voice over the loudspeakers. _"He wrote in great detail how cleverly he planned all of the killings—how __precisely__ he executed his insane fantasies. It was all so perfect, except for one thing…"_

Already they could hear a hard-driving rhythm starting in anticipation for Alice to retake the stage. Had Stanford been there, he would have told them the band was starting the second set with Cooper's opening number from his 2008 album "Along Came A Spider." The first track from that album, "I Know Where You Live," set the stage for a psychopathic stalker and serial killer known as Spider. Though they could only see him on the monitors above and around the concession stands, nowhere near close enough to the stage as they were, Alice strutted out in a long-tailed, white tuxedo jacket and tight leather pants. His hair was kept out of his eyes by a top hat accented by an animal skull and a pair of wings.

_**I like to watch from my car  
>I like to make sure you don't go far<br>I know the hours you sleep  
>Don't approve of the company that you keep<br>While you're in work I'm alone  
>In your room, on your bed and you'll never know<br>I like to go through your things  
>The touch, the smell, the joy it brings<strong>_

"Crap! It's starting!" Sherman said, lifting his brother by the shirt collar. "Come on, if we hurry we might be able to make it before the song is over!"

"GACKT!" Spinner choked out as the "Bordello of Blood" t-shirt was yanked into his throat, constricting his breathing. He flailed about like a dreadfully frightened Muppet, frantic for air as his brother dragged him away from the bathrooms in his desperation to get back to their seats.

_**I know where you live  
>I know where you hide<br>I know what keeps you alive  
>I know where you go<br>I know who you know  
>I know where your spending your nights<strong>_

"Why are you struggling? We have to go now, Spinner!"

Sherman growled in frustration and turned to snap at his older brother, only to see him scraping at his neck and turning blue. Immediately Sherman dropped him, kneeling next to Spinner to clear his airway if necessary.

"KAFF! What the HELL, Sherm?" he coughed, fresh blood finally returning to his brain.

"Sorry! I'm sorry! I just really don't want to miss anything and I got upset! Are you okay? I'm sorry!"

"I'm fine!" he said, waving him away. "Calm down, Sherm. We'll go now, okay?"

"Okay. Sorry…"

_**I don't like the guy in the suit  
>Or that street punk in the combat boots<br>You may not see them again  
>I showed them a quick but painful end<strong>_

_**I know where you live  
>I know where you hide<br>I know what keeps you alive  
>I know where you go<br>I know who you know  
>I know where your spending your nights<strong>_

Despite the ten thousand-strong crowd of fans enthralled to the original shock rocker, security was lax. In the seemingly endless sea of humans, few if any were paying attention to the makeshift parking lot. It had been like that many times before when bigger artists came to Handler County; they always wound up using the stage in the fairgrounds, letting screaming fanatics wail and stomp under the desert moon.

And there was a moon; indeed, a bright, fat, full moon glowed down on them from the clear black sky. Yet, even under the pale moonlight, none noticed the Scarib and Riptile park on the edge of the lot.

_**I see, I feel, I watch over you  
>I see, I feel, I watch over you<strong>_

"Look at all these vehicles," Krocomodo whispered.

"We are vastly outnumbered here," Hatch said with a shiver. "And listen to those war drums! We have surely found a warrior encampment."

"Stay low, Hatch. We were sent to Scout, and that is what we shall do."

_**I want to know what you say  
>I need to hear the prayers you pray<br>I like to play with your hair  
>When you sleep and you dream and there's no one there<strong>_

A seemingly random roadie who had tripped onto the stage accidentally yanked a wire out of the amplifier the bass guitar was hooked to, greatly angering the lead singer. Though Alice and the roadie's words were drowned out by the drums and rhythm guitar, there was a definite air of apathy and aggression from the insignificant muscle man; he angrily beckoned the rock star, as if to say, "Come at me, bro! I dare ya!" Alice responded by pulling a thin-bladed sword from his microphone stand and impaling the man. The nameless roadie fell to the floor of the stage, writhing in agony, his screams filling the night air as he desperately tried to pull the weapon that was now sheathed in his vital organs.

This, of course, was merely the theatrics and slight-of-hand Alice Cooper's live performances were famous for. The roadie was not dying or even injured—this was an illusion. But the Vandals were primitive and took it to mean the chief had struck down a young challenger despite his advancing age. Or perhaps chief was not the right word. All of the singing and drumming and the dark war paint favored by this enthralled mob seemed to carry religious connotations; perhaps he was a priest? Whatever his position, he was unmistakably the leader of this savage horde that cheered his every move. They screamed in approval, chanting and laughing with bloodlust.

_**I know where you live  
>I know where you hide<br>I know what keeps you alive  
>I know where you go<br>I know who you know  
>I know where your spending your nights<strong>_

_**I see, I feel, I watch over you  
>I see, I feel, I watch over you<br>I see, I feel, I watch over you  
>I see, I feel, I watch over you<br>I see, I feel, I watch over you  
>I see, I feel, I watch over you<br>I see, I feel, I watch over you  
>I see, I feel, I watch over you<br>I see, I feel, I watch over you  
>I see, I feel, I watch over you<strong>_

And yet here the priest was apprehended and dragged by two painted men to a guillotine. They forced his head into the stocks and raised the blade. The rhythm guitarist kneeled slightly at the foot of the stage, grinning like a madman and dragging a thumb across his own throat. The crowd went wild, calling for blood as the executioners beckoned them. From his hiding spot Krocomodo could hear many of the subcreatures yell "I love the dead!"

The blade dropped, the priest's head falling into a basket below to a change in music. The crowd screamed in glee, jumping and crying out in ecstasy. The same musician who had thumbed his throat called out to them.

"_**Do you love the dead?"**_ he demanded_**. "Let me hear you sing it!"**_

One of the executioners picked up the severed head of the priest, showing it to the crowd, and sprinkled the delighted mob with blood from the neck stump. Then, much to Hatch and Krocomodo's horror, he messily began to make out with the severed head. The multitude shouted their approval and began chanting along with those morbid troubadours.

_**I love the dead  
>I love the dead<br>I love the dead**_

"It's a cult…" the reptile muttered.

"Necromancers!" Hatch exclaimed. "Krocomodo, we must flee! We are outnumbered, and if they would do this to their own leader—"

"What would they do to outsiders?" he finished.

"_**You think he's dead? WAKE UP, ALICE!"**_

_**I love the dead  
>I love the dead<br>I love the dead**_

From behind the beer tent, the brothers Cortez had heard only snippets of this exchange, readying immediately for a fight. If Hatch and Krocomodo were there, then Earth was compromised. Had the Battle Force 5 fallen? Were they alone in a miserable conflict, waiting to be torn asunder? How many Vandals were even now taking Handler's Corners? Sherman raised his clutched fists, ready to bring them down on Krocomodo's skull.

"This scouting mission is a lost cause. We must make our way back to the portal."

"Let us away from this bloodthirsty cult!" Hatch whined in agreement.

A thought occurred to Spinner just then, and he stayed his brother's hand. "Grab 'em and follow my lead," he hissed. "This is gonna be awesome."

Though he was unsure, there was that certain sparkle in the playful Tijuana Genius's eyes that often meant there was no way to sway him. At video game competitions or hacking with Anonymous, that look and the horrid but wonderful ideas it belied led to too many decisive victories to count. And so this time, Sherman listened to his brother's instincts in battle. With a mighty hip check he knocked Hatch to the side and stepped on his shell, curling his arms tightly around Krocomodo's throat. He kept the reptilian Vandal's jaws shut tight, banking on his similarity to Earthly crocodiles and alligators meaning his jaw strength was all in the closing and he would lack the strength to open them. Before he could thrash his tail, Spinner stole away the dagger that was sheathed at his scaly hip and held it to his soft underbelly. The brothers dragged the pair of beastly men behind the beer tent, which had closed due to its proprietor injuring himself lifting a keg. Thankfully, there were other places to procure alcohol or the concert would have become a riot. As it was, it provided a convenient place for interrogation and intimidation.

"Hello Krocomodo, hello Hatch," Spinner said in a monotone, smiling ever so slightly. "So glad that you could join us in our…festivities. Malice will be so pleased."

"M-Malice?" Hatch squeaked.

"Oh yes," he said. He turned towards the stage and raised his arms in reverence. "Our Dark Lord and Master; he who holds dominion over the portals, and not just in our realm. Alice Cooper is his archaic name, but it translates to Malice…the Gatekeeper."

Sherman could not contain his laughter at the corniness of that line, but he managed through strength of will to keep it slow and deep, as if he were an evil man and great catastrophe were about to befall his enemies. The sound of his mirth-filled baritone chilled their captives to the core.

"This is where we part ways, sadly. It's almost time for the sacrifice," Spinner continued. "Ours is a dark and _hungry_ god, my dear unwanted guests. If you were unprepared to meet Him, you should not have come."

Krocomodo growled, forced his words through gritted fangs. "I am not afraid of your—"

_**FEEEEED MYYYYYYYYY FRANKENSTEEEIIIIIIIIN**_

"—gargantuan monster…"

A colossal totemic beast nearly 24 feet from waist to skull—an elaborate puppet, but not in the mind of the Vandals—towered up from behind the stage in a rolling fog and gave a mighty roar, gaping jaws snapping hungrily and arms clawing the air.

"Demon lord, actually," Spinner said. "As I said, the portals are his domain. He controls who pops through to our world, and if you are here, it's only because he desires you."

His serene smile had stretched further across his face, as if to greet someone whose throat he was about to rip out, and his previous monotone had become more fevered and excited. Such out of character ferocity was unnerving from one usually prone to panic, and though he would not say aloud, Krocomodo was deeply concerned for his safety.

But what proved to fuel the Vandals' fear even more was what happened onstage and on the display screens. Alice returned to thunderous applause with blood still on his neck from his beheading and a change of costume. Now discarded were his tuxedo jacket and taxidermy top hat. In their place were a red silk shirt, a wide leather belt with a carved silver skull and an intricately designed, long, black coat with golden epaulets and six spider legs that moved along with every gesture of his arms. There were flashes of red light and smoke billowed out around his coat as he reappeared, arms crossed like a laid out corpse, and opened his cold blue eyes.

"This is blackest magic far beyond my ken," Hatch lamented. "They can bring back their dead. They resurrected their priest as an arachnid lord!"

"And soon, you'll belong to Him," Sherman snarled. "We will feed you to our Lord Malice!"

_**Well, I ain't evil, I'm just good lookin'  
>Start a little fire, and baby start cookin'<br>I'm a hungry man  
>But I don't want pizza<br>I'll blow down your house  
>And then I'm gonna eat ya<strong>_

Their likelihood of survival seemed to dwindle with every second that passed. Their only chance of escape lay in keeping the humans talking.

_**Bring you to a simmer  
>Right on time<br>Run my greasy fingers  
>Up your greasy spine<strong>_

"You said he holds dominion over the portals?" Krocomodo asked, trying to signal Hatch with his eyes—well, his good eye. "If he is so powerful, then why did he allow the Vandals to come to Earth twice before?"

"We had yet to take up with the cult at that point," Spinner tossed off. "We hadn't seen what amazing power our Dark Lord has!"

"It was foolish of us to ignore His influence for so long," Sherman agreed. "But as long as we pay Him tribute our race has nothing to fear from your weak warriors—"

_**Feed my Frankenstein  
>Meet my libido<br>He's a psycho  
>Feed my Frankenstein<br>Hungry for love  
>And it's feeding time<strong>_

Hatch and Krocomodo nodded to each other, and the reptilian Vandal thrashed his tail. The pair escaped into the night, ignoring the brothers' demands of vengeance and threats of violence. With a wail of fright Hatch slid into the Scarib, divined the rhythm of an aftershock, and in a flash of dramatic lightning worthy of Alice himself, the Vandals fled in abject terror the likes of which their entire race had never known.

_**You don't want to talk  
>So baby shut up<br>And let me drink the wine from your fur tea cup  
>Velcro candy, sticky sweet<br>Make my tattoos melt in the heat  
>Well, I ain't no veggie<br>Like my flesh on the bone  
>Alive and lickin' on your ice cream cone<strong>_

_**Feed my Frankenstein  
>Meet my libido<br>He's a psycho  
>Feed my Frankenstein<br>Hungry for love  
>And it's feeding time<strong>_

As the band went into the chorus a final time, the brothers slapped hands in triumph and booked it to the Buster Tank. For the illusion to be complete, they would have to give chase. Spinner was getting more and more into character and was grinning like a maniac, the coal black around his eyes smeared and making him look like an undead mime.

"All will love our Dark Lord and despair!" he cried. "Malice will have your souls!"

_**Whoa ohhhhh, baby, chow down  
>Feed my Frankenstei-yi-yein!<strong>_

* * *

><p>Zoom nearly lost his balance as he reached for the battle key before recovering and driving up a rock wall. He nabbed it and landed gracefully before removing his helmet in confusion. "Guys, did you hear that?"<p>

"Spinner, everything okay out there?" Vert asked. He hoped the pair had not been drinking; a monster like the Buster could do a lot of damage, especially if its crew were too inebriated to handle it properly.

"Vandals on your six, Vert!" Sherman warned, soberly enough to quell his leader's fears. "Hatch and Krocomodo crashed the concert. But we know how to take care of unwanted guests…"

Hatch picked up that transmission, and for a moment allowed himself to hope. The leader of the Battle Force 5, that cocky golden-haired subcreature, was an honorable being. He was annoying, but fair, and would not tolerate mindless violence such as this. Surely he would not allow his subordinates to worship a demon?

"Aw, c'mon, bro!" Spinner snarled. "I think they were really _enjoying_ the party! Maybe we should take them back! Nothing's free, after all; the Gatekeeper will require a sacrifice."

"Between Kalus and Krytus we've got our hands full," Vert said—in rather a cold tone, Hatch imagined, as he sealed their fate and threw them to the ape-dogs. "Do what you have to do, just do it fast."

"With pleasure," Sherman growled. Spinner only laughed.

Hatch sideswiped the Tangler into the Cortez brothers' path and accelerated towards his home world's portal. Their leader had given the brothers free reign and signed his death warrant. Desperate and frightened, he lashed out with the sting of his Scarib but the spine glanced off of the Buster's thick shell, catching in the wheels. As Spinner swung the mace from his armored turret, the stinger tail snapped off and the Scarib broke free.

"I'll have your _soul_," the elder Cortez hissed over the line.

That was all it took to send the crustacean home in a blind panic, tailed closely by the similarly beaten Krocomodo. Just as they moved through the portal, bruised and frightened, the pair of them heard the Cortez brothers laugh.

"COWARDS!" the Vandal warlord shouted as the completed their hasty retreat. "WHY have you returned defeated? WHY have you disgraced the Vandal Horde with your fearful running?"

"I-it was not our fault, Captain Kalus—"

"Oh, it's _never_ your fault, is it, _Krocomodo?"_

"Krocomodo is right, your fierceness!" Hatch implored. "We were too badly outnumbered. When we arrived on Earth, a cult of _**NECROMANCERS**_ were there, sacrificing to their demon lord—"

"Malice the Gatekeeper," Krocomodo interjected. "There were thousands of them, Captain. We could never have won in combat and if we were captured you would not have learned the truth until it was far too late. We thought only to shield the Horde from further defeat."

Kalus growled noncommittally, stroking the fur beneath his chin. "A group so large would be problematic, even if not properly trained… A cult, you say?"

"At first when we heard the drums we thought they were going to war, but as we happened upon them…" Krocomodo gulped as he remembered the wild-eyed faces. "They were mad or intoxicated, most of them probably both as they chanted along with their priest about death and purifying their race. The priest was killed and together the cultists and his assistants were loudly extolling the virtues of corpse defilement when we were suddenly captured!"

"Two members of the Battle Force 5, the brothers in blue, were there among the cultists and just as crazed," Hatch told his captain, lowering his head like a scolded puppy. "They said we were to be sacrificed, but we managed to escape."

Kalus snarled, cursing the fates. If all of this were true, then Earth was a lost cause. Conquest of Vert Wheeler's home-world was not to be. He would have to settle for torturing and slowly killing the subcreature if…WHEN he finally defeated him.

"If I find out you have mislead me," the cat growled, "the consequences will be _dire."_

* * *

><p>"—so we start broadcasting about our 'dark lord' and chase them all the way to the portal!"<p>

"Okay, I will admit, it was pretty innovative," Vert reluctantly sighed. "That was really reckless and things could have gone a lot worse, but it looks like Spinner's quest for laughs saved the day."

Spinner chuckled nervously, unused to positive attention. He felt suddenly bashful as he received congratulatory handshakes and pats on the back from the rest of the team. "Yeah, I guess it did. Heheh…"

"Those broadcasts were even giving _me_ shivers, dude," Zoom declared. "I thought you'd gone rogue on us. No wonder the Vandals were scared, the way you were channeling Anti-AJ! Forget comedy, you should be in horror movies!"

Tezz harrumphed. "Those primitive beings were so foolishly quick to believe in the supernatural."

"Well, a cult doesn't need functioning magic to be dangerous, Tezz," Sherman noted. "At first Hatch and Krocomodo only thought we were going to let the crowd tear them apart. Alice Cooper fans can be pretty scary on their own, but in large groups? A crowd that massive, whipped into a violent frenzy by a charismatic leader, would be capable of untold amounts of destruction."

"And!" Stanford added. "Rumors of demonic worship and human sacrifice have followed Alice since the early seventies! His vaudevillian stage theatrics often involve simulated violence and executions by hanging, electrocution, impalement, or most famously by guillotine, as well as appearances by monstrous beings and many other fantasy elements. Even humans have believed Mr. Cooper to be some manner of evil cult leader, which is made even more hilarious when you realize that he's a born again Christian."

Vert scoffed and chuckled, unable to keep the smile from his face. "Christian? Okay, now you're just messing with me."

"No, quite honestly, Vert. He's Christian, he started a charity foundation for underprivileged children, he plays golf, he doesn't drink alcohol anymore—he was even raised by Mormon parents! He may act like a barbarous villain on stage but that's just the character he plays. In real life, he's a very nice fellow; not just because he's a good person, but also because it freaks people out more when he's smiling and friendly and he finds that amusing!" After listing off all of these known personality traits of the original shock rocker, the hub's resident music expert seemed to wilt with depression. "But he is _ever_ so good at playing a villain, and I wish I'd gotten to see him. Aww, I made myself sad…"

"Cheer up, Stan," Vert said. "Maybe he'll come back on the next tour…"

Out on the salt flats, a lonesome coyote howled, and the fat full moon retreated behind storm clouds. The sun would not be up for a few hours yet, but the night was over. Gone with the night was Alice, flying down the highway like a bat out of hell. The drunk tank at the Sherrif's office was full, as were the register and safe at Zeke's diner. Soon enough, life in the little town in the middle of nowhere would be back to normal, or as close to normal as things got around Handler's Corners, and the concert would be a distant memory.

But the Cortez brothers would always remember how a rock n' roll legend inspired them to defeat their enemies.


End file.
